


Proof

by Loudest_Voice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loudest_Voice/pseuds/Loudest_Voice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost ten years afterwards, Tom Riddle Sr. decides to find Merope. He was never insane. He means to prove it to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Orphanage

**Author's Note:**

> This is set during the 1930s, so characters will be thinking and saying racist, classist, sexist, and generally awful things practically every chapter.
> 
> Also, I made up the Earl of Ashbourne. If such a person exists or existed in Britain, he has nothing to do with this story.

_The White Hag_ stank of cheap beer, sweat, and vomit. Despite the late hour, it was almost devoid of patrons. Some aging gentlemen were playing cards at one of the larger tables, but not even the eventual winners looked particularly jubilant. Not that they had much cause for joy. They were playing for bottlecaps. Even the lone server at the counter looked sour and bored. Only one drunk was idling by him, and apparently he'd already been cut off.

Mr. Thomas Riddle would become apoplectic if he ever saw his only son sitting at one of _The White Hag's_ more secluded tables doing his best to look like he belonged there. The thought almost brought a smile to Tom's lips.

"I almost didn't recognize you out of your fancy jacket and shiny boots," said the shady gentleman Tom had hired less than two weeks prior. Mr. Firth shot Tom an amused smirk before raising a rusting mug to his mouth. He swallowed his beer so quickly Tom doubted he tasted it, then wiped at his lips with a gloved hand. The few puffs of foam he left behind made a stark contrast with the stringy strands of his black beard.

"I traded my clothes with an old drunk a few streets away," explained Tom. He remembered how incredulous the shaking old beggar had been. He'd made Tom take his clothes off first. Maybe the scent of sweat and vomit was coming from Tom's new old clothes and not _The White Hag's_ sticky floor.

"Someone's going to kill him for your shoes," said Mr. Firth, snorting lightly.

"And no one will kill _me_ for them," said Tom. "Not tonight, at least."

Mr. Firth looked at him up and down before smirking again and taking his last swig of cheap beer. "The clothes are too small for you," he said before reaching for Tom's untouched mug. "You should've traded with _fat_ drunk. Not that it'd have made much of a difference. It only takes one look at your face to realize you've never gone hungry for more than six hours."

"My father would be thrilled to know his affluence is so obviously apparent on my face," said Tom, reaching for Mr. Firth's empty mug and pulling to his side of the table. He doubted a waiter would bother them, but it never hurt to be sure. "I trust you have information for me."

"I trust you have the sum we agreed upon," said Mr. Firth, using such an exaggerated upper class accent Tom just had to smile.

"I do," he said. "It'll be yours if and when you've delivered the information I requested." Briefly, he wondered if Mr. Firth would claim to have found nothing. Maybe he planned to chase Tom out of pub and then ambush him at some secluded alley. Tom had spotted several on his way to their meeting.

"Merope Riddle nee Gaunt is dead," said Mr. Firth, interrupting Tom's musings and raising his bevearage. "God rest her soul." He brought the mug back to his mouth and started drinking. Tom watched his thick throat work to swallow and wondered why the news did not affect him at all.

"Do you have proof?"

"Do you have my money?" There were no longer any traces of amusement marring Mr. Firth's features. Tom decided it would be safest to give him what he'd come for.

Instead of answering, he grabbed the empty mug and hid it under the table. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. After stuffing the bills in the empty mug, Tom placed it back on the table and pushed it towards his companion.

"You've wet my money," said Mr. Firth after grabbing the mug and pushing it under his side of the table.

"Let it dry," said Tom. "Do you have proof?"

"Find the proof yourself," snapped Mr. Firth. "If anyone has a right to claim her death certificate, it's her widower."

That was true enough. Even though he'd divorced Merope and thus wasn't _really_ her widower, no one would deny him a request for her death certificate. Tom stood up and nodded at the glaring Mr. Firth. "Thank you for your prompt service." He bowed lightly before turning around and almost reached the pub's exit before he heard Mr. Firth's voice.

"Boy!" Tom considered ignoring him, but some devil made him turn around and return to the table. At least he remembered not sit down again. "She had a son on her deathbed," said Mr. Firth after a few moments, staring at Tom through narrowed, watery eyes. "He's at Wool's Orphanage. The least you could do is give him to one of your minions to raise." Without another word, Mr. Firth raised the mug to his mouth and gestured at Tom to go away.

Tom could imagine the conclusions he'd come to. How many poor girls died giving birth to rich boys' bastards every year? For one insane moment, Tom wanted to sit down and explain what Merope had done to him. He bit his lip and turned away before doing something so stupid. Mr. Firth wouldn't believe him. Tom didn't believe himself sometimes. He practically ran to the pub's exit, ignoring the way the old drunk's two-small shoes pressed against his toes.

He was almost grateful for the fat raindrops that greeted him outside the pub. A storm might chase away some of the bandits Mr. Firth claimed would recognized him as a rich man. The water might even wash some of the stink off his clothes. He didn't know why he'd come, much less why he'd tried to find Merope in the first place. Shaking his head, he decided to walk home. Not even a flash of lightning followed by angry thunder deterred him.

 _Trying to prove you're not a coward?_ Tom heard the question in his father's sneering voice. Maybe he was. Tom had been trying to prove something or other to his father for as long as he could remember. At some point, he'd started proving things to himself.

It'd probably started after Merope had scrambled his mind and turned him into a slave. She'd stripped away every truth Thomas Riddle had drilled into his mind—the certainty that he was meant for great things, the conviction that he was better than everyone around him, his belief that money could buy safety, power, and class—and left him looking for phantoms in every shadow.

After he'd escaped her, Tom had wondered the streets of London in a cloud of confusion for days. He didn't know how he'd eaten, where he'd bathed, or even where he'd shat. Perhaps rain had washed the grime off him then as well. A storm similar to the one currently beating on his skin would have certainly kept him clean enough. _Something_ must have because when Tom eventually stumbled back into Little Hangleton and begged his father for forgiveness, Thomas had agreed to take him back. He'd had to divorce Merope, or course, but Tom would have probably strangled her if his father had asked him to by that point. Assuming he could have found the courage to face her again.

"I suppose every young man's befuddled by a tramp at least once," Thomas had said once the divorce had been finalized. "It _is_ strange that you went for an _ugly_ tramp, though I suppose I should be thanking all angels in heaven that she was a _woman_ at least" He'd shot Tom an eerily affectionate frown and then sent him to Oxford with orders to bring his family name pride.

Tom had gone with every intention to do so. He was supposedly smart. All the tutors Thomas ever hired had said as much, though later he'd wondered if they had only said what they'd thought his father wanted to hear. Merope had certainly made him question his supposed intelligence enough to consider it a possibility, but that had only made him even more determined to prove himself in the long run.

The Oxford classes themselves hadn't posed much of a problem in that regard. Whatever his social shortcomings might be, they did not affect Tom's aptitude for mathematics or his apparently impressive memory (Tom still had difficulty understanding that other people did not recall events with as much acuity as he did).

His classmates, on the other hand, had taught him his true place in the world. At Little Hangleton, Tom had been the handsome son of the richest man in miles and miles. The villagers had despised and envied him. They'd also feared his father enough to kiss his arse, at least to his face. Tom was certain they'd done nothing but mock him the moment he was out of sight and earshot.

Nobody at Oxford had waited until he was out of sight or earshot. At Oxford he'd been just another member of the _nouveau riche_ , a nameless upstart swimming in funds while the sons of so many honest English gentlemen languished in genteel poverty. Those genteel sons had despised Tom with more ferocity than Thomas ever mustered towards the blacks, Jews, and immigrants he blamed for the empire's decline. Good nutrition and hygiene might have given Tom height, a full head of hair, and symmetry of features, but the blood of bastards, thieves, and rapists still coursed through his veins. Or so had most people at Oxford claimed.

At first, Tom had assumed his classmates would accept him if he just excelled enough. He'd graduated with a first in Physics and a heavyweight boxing championship belt before accepting that every single accomplishment would only make his classmates hate him more. Even more insulting, they'd always considered themselves better than him since their ancestry was "pure".

Ironically enough, remembering Merope had helped Tom shrug off the worst of his their derision. Their names wouldn't have protected them from her powers any more than Thomas' money had protected Tom.

He tried to look up at the sky, but it was raining so heavily that doing so made it difficult to breathe. Tom looked down again and sighed tiredly. A smart man would have hurried back to his home, but a smart man wouldn't have agreed to marry a woman like Caroline. The cold night rain was warmer than his wife on one of her kinder moods, so Tom shuffled home and soaked. By the time he reached his street, the storm was long over but his teeth were chattering. Cold gusts of wind had pinned the old drunk's soaking this clothes to his skin, making him itch all over. How amusing would it be if he caught pneumonia and died? The thought made him burst into hysterical laughter. Or maybe it was the sight of the silver lion crest on the fence of "his" ancestral London mansion.

For some reason, he felt wetter and colder the moment he stepped under his porch. Since he hand't bothered to avoid all the puddles on the way back, he dragged mud and water with him. His hand shook as he tried to push his key into its lock. After he'd opened the door, he stood behind the threshold shivering as he considered taking off the drunk's boots before entering.

Finally, he shrugged and walked in; dirt, grime, and leaves he would trail all over the place be damned. Why did he pay his servants if not to keep the Ashbourne marble floors pristine? Besides, he was sure they'd be grateful for a new reason to disdain him. For his part, he was grateful he ran into no one as he headed to his room, cursing the ridiculous size of the place and the smug family portraits Caroline had plastered the lavender walls with. Honestly, sometimes it felt like there were hospitals smaller than his blasted house.

Another heavy sigh escaped his lips when he walked into his room. He looked at the warm, comfortable bed longingly and started peeling off the old drunk's patchy clothes. Their stink was more pronounced when framed by the faint scent of flowers the servants had somehow infused into his burgundy rug. Tom actually scratched the soles of his feet on it after kicking off the constricting old sailors' boots. After forcing down another cringe of contrition, he rang for a servant and then walked into his private bath.

The room was almost as large as the bedroom proper. There was a large window over an even larger bathtub covered by flimsy white curtains that Tom had been assured were hand-woven with finest white cotton money could buy. A set cabinets made with the purest wood from an old yew tree and finished with Tung oil was arranged on the longest wall, the roaring lion of the Ashbourne crest etched on its edges, and a majestic mirror hanged above it. Tom ignored them and walked straight towards the faucet, eager to feel hot water warming his chilled skin.

Every time he saw his big, oval shaped bathtub, he felt like his marriage to Caroline had been almost worth it after all. Sure, Tom had come into the marriage with a fortune large enough to purchase several luxury bathrooms like the Earl of Ashbourne's, but he doubted he ever would have thought of doing so in the first place. He'd considered the whole thing an absurd and obnoxious expense the first time he'd laid eyes on it, more so because it couldn't even be shown off. He doubted old Ashbourne had invited friends to see his toilet.

Then Tom had actually bathed in the stupidly extravagant tub and instantly understood the seemingly pointless expense. It was large enough to cradle a man of even his height in hot water that seeped into and relax tired muscles. Somehow it always made him feel clean enough to face even the dirtiest of problems. Tom submerged his head under the water for a few seconds and we he came back out he was ready to truly consider Mr. Firth's last words.

The boy would be around eight. It was all Tom could say for sure.

Many rich men riddled the world with bastards—though if Merope's son was also his, he wouldn't really be his bastard, would he? Regardless, Tom could afford to retrieve him from the orphanage and hire a full-time set of nannies to see to his needs. Money was not an issue. The boy would have the finest education available to rich London brats. It was doubtful he'd ever be accepted into the high class society Thomas had always wanted for his progeny, but an upper class accent alone could take him places.

Tom raised his foot and rubbed soap in between his itching toes. If he was perfectly honest with himself, the reason he hesitated to make any plans was fear. Not of the expenses or even Caroline's disapproval, but of what Merope's son might be able to do. While enjoying the comforts of his tub, Tom could admit that Merope had done _something_ to him. What if her boy could do the same? The thought of being a slave again made his breath catch and his stomach clench. It was absurd to be scared of a child he'd never laid eyes on, but Tom was scared all the same.

But what if the boy was . . . normal? What if the boy was really his? Could Tom really live with himself knowing a son of his was wallowing in poverty somewhere? He tried to imagine John—the child he'd conceived with Caroline the one and only time they'd consummated their marriage—huddled among other nameless orphans in dirty rags, waiting for a serving of cold broth and trying to hack out frail coughs. The thought was repulsive.

With a grunt of disgust, Tom gripped the edge of the tub and got to his feet. Mr. Firth was right. The least he could was make sure Merope's son didn't go hungry for more than six hours a day. The child shouldn't be blamed for his mother's actions and if he also had her powers. . .

Tom sighed and got out of the tub, grabbing one of his towels roughly. He could retrieve the boy and treat him as though he was normal. Hopefully he was and if he _wasn't_ . . . well, then Tom would have _proof_. Proof for himself, at least. He wasn't mad. He'd never been. By the time he entered his room, he'd decided to at least locate Wool's Orphanage.

Unfortunately, he couldn't get to bed because Caroline was waiting for him, arm crossed under chest and looking as though she would have loved nothing more than to burn the entire bedroom to ashes.

She was wearing a blue silk sleeping gown that highlighted her eyes. She'd let her light blond hair spill down her back artlessly. Her full lips were pursed into a cupid's bow and her delicate nose was flared. Tom wondered if she'd actually donned on makeup before barging into his room. He doubted she'd stayed up waiting for him, but he could swear she was wearing a touch of pink blush on her cheeks. Obviously, his own bloody servants were spying on him. One of them—a stout girl with short brown hair—crouched near Caroline's feet and scrubbed the rug on the spot where Tom had scratched his foot.

"Get out," said Tom.

The cleaning girl practically jumped to her feet. She gasped the moment she laid eyes on him, making Tom realize he'd left his towel in the bathroom. "My lord!" she squeaked, curtsying deeply before hurrying out of the room, carefully avoiding Caroline's gaze all the while.

"I meant you," said Tom after she'd gone, looking straight at his wife. If she didn't want to see him naked, she shouldn't come to his room unannounced. He'd rung for a servant who'd mercifully rid the room of the scent of vomit while he bathed so now Tom wanted to sleep.

"Must you always set their tongues wagging?" Caroline looked him up and down wrinkled her nose.

Tom restrained the urge to shrink back and cover himself. Rationally, he knew that he was good looking and athletic. In a leisurely pace, he walked towards his drawers and pulled out a pair of pants. The servant girl would be wagging her tongue about him tonight, but she'd have only good things to say about his looks.

Still, no man liked to see a woman looking at him with disgust. Especially if she was his wife. Especially if she looked like Caroline.

"Would you like me to dismiss our servants and replace them with mutes?" he asked. "Or perhaps keep these and cut out their tongues out?"

"You might be a common merchant, but you have a duty towards my father's title—"

"— _my_ title now," interrupted Tom. "And your father certainly wasn't respecting it when he was gambling away his great-great-grandfather's money." Mentioning all of Ashbourne's destructive little habit never failed to infuriate her. "I repeat: get out." Tom reached for his bed sheets and pulled them back, hoping that Caroline would leave if he got into bed.

"Where were you and why were you dressed like a beggar?"

Of course she wouldn't. Tom held back a sigh and turned to look at her, eager to see the look on her face for once. "I was looking for my ex-wife."

He wasn't disappointed. Caroline's eyes widened and her mouth formed an _o_. For a second she looked like a fish. A beautiful fish, but a fish nonetheless. Tom enjoyed it for the few moments it took her to compose herself. "Did you find her?" she asked.

"She's dead," answered Tom.

Caroline's relieved sigh almost made him mention the boy, but he bit his lip. She'd find out about him soon enough, hopefully after Tom had made a decision.

"I hope you were discreet," she said. To an outsider she'd looked unflappable, but Tom knew her well enough to notice her reflexive swallow and the tense curling of the hand around her left elbow. "If anyone learned of . . . the impropriety . . ."

"I was as discreet as you were with Andrew Benet," said Tom. If they had been standing any closer, he was certain she would have tried to slap him. The knuckles on the hand she'd curved around her slim elbow actually went white and she bit into her lower lip.

"My relationship with Mr. Benet—"

"—please," interrupted Tom. "Spare me the details; I don't actually care. I just wanted to highlight the hypocrisy of you barging into my room with lectures about discretion and _propriety_ when you've been fucking my administrator in the house you were supposed to be raising my son for God only knows how long."

"Every day I wish you'd died instead of my brother," she gritted out before turning on her heel and walking out of his room without another word.

Tom stared at his bedroom door for few moments, half-expecting her to change her mind and walk back in to deliver a few insults. That couldn't be the only comeback she had for him. At the very least, she could mention his father's simpering attempts at winning her favor, or his mother's pious meekness. Tom sighed deeply before rubbing at his eyes and getting into bed.

Come morning, he'd order his new administrator to gather as much information as possible on Wool's Orphanage. Satisfied with his decision—and gratified by the rare verbal victory he'd somehow wrested from his beautifully poisonous wife—Tom got under his warm covers and enjoyed an unusual evening of restful sleep.

 

***

 

It began on Wednesday. Tom had been completing his English language homework, idly counting the years until he'd be allowed to leave Wool's (only eight more now), when he'd caught Martha staring at him, pale hazel eyes wide and strangely wistful. She'd looked away the moment she realized she'd been caught so Tom had gone back to his work and put her out of his mind. People stared at him on occasion—though, now that he thought about it, it was rarely adults. Nevertheless, he probably would have forgotten about it all together if he hadn't caught her staring again on Thursday. And then again on Friday. By Saturday, Louise had joined her.

Obviously, they suspected him of something and for once, Tom had no idea what it was. He'd made it a point to be on his best behavior since they'd all returned from the last seaside holiday. Mrs. Cole was not likely to be lenient with him, not while Dennis and Amy wondered Wool's grey halls whimpering like injured rabbits. So Tom had been the model student ever since. He'd been completing even the most boring of assignments and chores without complaints. For the time being, his bullies were contending with cool aloofness rather than swift retaliation. They'd be plenty of time to get back at them once the cave incident faded from everyone's memory.

Everything had been going surprisingly well. Mrs. Cole was suspicious, but she had no proof of anything. Tom knew she wouldn't risk taking any official action against him without concrete evidence, not if it might involve the authorities and give Wool's heirs any reason to justify revoking the orphanage's funding. Amy's nightmares had even inspired Sarah to start some idiotic rumors about him, so most students had been treating him like he was an explosive on the verge of going off. Only the most daring and persistent new kids had been trying to bother him and they were easily ignored.

Tom had actually been bored and disappointed by how easily he'd gotten away with all but assaulting two classmates, especially when he hadn't meant to take the whole thing as far as it went. He had to remind himself that the experiment hadn't been a complete loss. For starters, he'd confirmed that he could indeed make humans do things, though it was much harder than manipulating animals. It was definitely harder than persuading _snakes_ to do what he wanted.

With a sigh of frustration, Tom turned face down and tried to fluff his bumpy, hand-me down pillow. Then he buried his face in it and ordered himself to focus. There was nothing more he could do about his power, not while he was at Wool's. If he tried anything with any other orphans, Mrs. Cole wouldn't be able to ignore her conscience. There was nothing he could but wait.

He could entertain himself by investigating why Martha and Louise suddenly found him so interesting.

Tom raised his head and sucked in a deep breath. The only problem was he didn't _care_ about Martha and Louise. They were just serving girls, barely above the orphans they were supposed to be caring for. Even if they _did_ suspect him of something, they had no power to act on their suspicions. Besides, they didn't seem to be afraid of him or anything. It was more like they were tittering about Mad Tom, behaving as though they were ten rather some twenty-odd years. Was it annoying? Yes. But it was hardly an interesting enough mystery to distract him from his frustrations.

Try as he might, he couldn't keep his thoughts from circling about the bind he was in. There was power coursing through his veins. He could feel it. Sometimes he felt permeating the air, taunting his nose and skin, daring him to try and reach out for it. Tom desperately wanted to grab it, but he was afraid of what it might do. What if the fire turned on its creator next time? What if he lost control and accidentally shredded his own thoughts to bloody tendrils? He'd almost lost control with Dennis and Amy already.

The plan had been to scare them yes, but not to the point where they clawed at their cheeks and emptied their bowels. For a moment, Tom himself had almost been overwhelmed by their fears. Suddenly, the sound of dripping water, the chill of the ocean wind, and the wet, musky scent of moss growing on stones had been horrifying. He hadn't screamed like Dennis and Amy, but he _had_ doubled over and vomited vile.

It'd been for the best in the end. Mrs. Cole might not have been able to rationalize her suspicions away if Tom hadn't been pale and shaking when Louise had found them. As it was, he'd looked like a stupid child who'd gotten carried away playing a prank. Not that he was thrilled at the prospect of looking stupid. He sighed and closed his eyes, determined to get a few hours of sleep before the Sun started shining through the window.

Maybe he would have managed it too, but then Eric started snoring softly two beds over, making Tom's hands curl into fists.

Eric was a year older than him, but he was thin and frail. Tom had learned that getting up and holding his nostrils closed for a few seconds stopped him from snoring for a little while. Long enough for Tom to fall asleep anyway. Once, Eric had woken and Tom had no choice but to grasp his neck and threaten to strangle him if he told. Ever since then he'd been waking Eric up if he started snoring, but . . . What if Eric decided to stand up to him tonight?

He'd never done it before, but there was a first time for everything. Before, Tom's confidence had been boosted by the knowledge that he had his powers on his side even though they didn't always work, or worked in ways he hadn't intended. Now he couldn't use them anymore. What if Eric ended up like Amy and Dennis?

Tom forced his muscles to relax and laid his head down. If only he had his own room. Wool's actually had a few single suits, but Mrs. Cole refused to give him one because he wasn't old enough. "You're warm and well-fed," she'd told him when he tried to argue. "It's more than what most children in your situation have. Be satisfied and stop asking for the world." Tom hadn't even been asking for a big room, much less the world. He'd just wanted a place to sleep without being woken by snores, sniffles, and the occasional sobs.

Eventually, he did wake Eric and threaten to stuff rotting bread into his nostrils to stop him from snoring, but he didn't sleep very well despite the thin silence he created. Even the wind beating against the windows startled him awake, and he could hardly terrorize _air_ into quieting.

Next morning, a dull headache accompanied him all throughout breakfast and made his eggs taste blander than usual. He forced himself to eat them just to avoid any possible lectures about wasting expensive food and almost snarled when he had to endure one anyway as he tried to turn in his empty dishes. The orphan in front of him didn't finish his sausages.

Just as he prayed for the day not to get any worse, he ran into one of his bullies on the way to History class. "Well, if it isn't Mad Tom!" said Will at the foot of the stairs, making a great show of twirling one the blond curls that fell over his brown eyes. The girls thought they made him comely for reasons Tom couldn't divine. "Have you heard what our little fairies have been saying about you lately?"

"Nothing good, I imagine," said Tom, as he tried to walk around him.

Will grabbed his shoulder and pushed him backwards. "I'm not done talking to you, bastard," he snarled.

Tom felt his fists curling and his stomach clenching, but he forced himself to relax. Will was almost thirteen and he seemed to get bigger with every passing week. "Your rich father's dead," he said against his better judgment. "Bastards don't have to listen to you anymore."

Will growled and swung a fist at him, but Tom had been expecting it so he ducked and tried to run back towards the dining hall. Unfortunately, Will's long arms grabbed a hold of his hair and pulled his head back. He wrestled Tom's right arm behind his back and pushed him against the wall nearest to the stairs. "You think you're so much better than everyone, you little _shite_."

Tom held back a grunt of pain when he felt his elbow twisting and rolled his eyes. That last dig was a bit rich coming from some twit who was still bitter that his uncle had dumped him at Wool's after his parents died in some stupid boating accident. "Everyone going from breakfast to class will pass by this hallway," pointed out Tom, wondering what had made Will angry enough to risk being sent to the attic again. Maybe he was hoping that no one would care if he dislocated Mad Tom's shoulder. If so, he was in for a rude awakening. Mrs. Cole took great pride on being fair.

"What's the meaning of this?" he heard Mrs. Cole shout suddenly, almost as if he'd summoned her with a thought. Will let him go instantly and Tom pushed away from the wall, rotating his shoulder to check for any injuries.

"I was just playing with him, is all," said Will, showing the palms of his hands and smiling down at Tom jovially.

"He was _not_ ," said Tom.

Mrs. Cole's thin shoulders tensed and her nose flared dangerously. Will would call Tom a tattler later, but Tom didn't care. Like everyone else didn't tattle on him at every opportunity.

"Will, see yourself to the attic. You may come out by bedtime—"

"I guess you don't hate him now that he's some earl's b—"

"—tomorrow," finished Mrs. Cole.

Will's face twisted into an ugly scowl and for a moment Tom was certain he was going to launch himself at Mrs. Cole. Instead he _spat_ in Tom's direction and ran up the stairs.

"And don't expect to be getting any food after that shameful display," Mrs. Cole yelled after him.

Tom looked at the wad of saliva and snot staining the floor at his feet and then tried to escape before Mrs. Cole could turn her attention on him and demand to know if he'd somehow provoked Will. Why would—

"Tom."

With a small sigh he hoped was inaudible, he turned around and looked up. Mrs. Cole was looking down at him with her brows furrowed. "There's a very important gentleman here to see you. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Come into my office."

Well, that was certainly not he'd expected to hear.

No one had ever come to visit him specifically. No one. It could only be someone from the disciplinary board, but he hadn't done anything in almost a month. Had Dennis or Amy said something? How had they managed to get anyone to believe them? Why weren't _they_ being accused of madness?

Trying his best not to be overwhelmed by fear and anger, Tom followed Mrs. Cole. He stole a few glances upwards and noticed that her lips seemed set in a tense line. The last time Tom had seen her so stressed, she'd been dealing potentially crippling case of termites feeding on the orphanage's foundation. She wouldn't be so upset over some stupid dispute between three kids under ten. What the bloody hell was going on? More importantly, what did it have to do with him?

It wasn't until Mrs. Cole reached for her office's doorknob that Tom registered that Will meant to call him an earl's bastard.

 

***

 

 

Wool's Orphanage was mercifully clean, but its high railings were foreboding. The coat of grey paint that that covered its walls didn't do much for the décor either. While sitting at the modest office waiting for one Ms. Cole to attend to him, Tom considered what he'd learned about the institution. His new administrator proved himself quite efficient.

It'd taken Mr. Atherton less three days to compile an exhaustive report about the place (though it'd taken Tom more than a week to force himself to visit). The place had been founded by the eccentric Mr. Willem Wool, who'd gone as far as leaving a charter for its upkeep upon his death. Thanks to him, Wool's Orphanage counted on more capital than three typical London orphanages put together.

It helped that Mr. Wool had been quite particular in his will. He'd decreed that no more than seventy-five children would be fostered in his orphanage at once, which spared the lucky orphans living there from the dangers and indignities of overcrowding. The rest of his peculiarities were much less admirable. In order to qualify for funding from Mr. Wool's charitable organization, all children at Wool's Orphanage had to be white, English, "right of mind", and "missing no appendages". Tom was surprised Mr. Wool hadn't excluded girls as well.

He wondered just how strictly the conditions were followed. What if one of the children some kind of accident that left them crippled or feeble-minded? A nasty part of him hoped the terms were strictly enforced, if only because it would mean that Merope's son wasn't some kind of invalid or freak. The boy's file . . . Tom smiled to himself before finishing the thought. Mr. Atherton had actually provided the file of _every_ child currently living at the orphanage even though it must have been obvious which one interested Tom. Merope had named her brat Tom Marvolo— _Marvolo_ —Riddle. It was a miracle that middle name alone hadn't disqualified the boy from Mr. Wool's immaculate halls.

An unexpected knock on the door interrupted Tom's thoughts. Almost before he could gather his wits, a thin middle-aged woman walked in. He almost forgot himself and by the time he'd stood up, she had curtsied briefly and turned harassed blue eyes on him. "My lord," she said.

Tom nodded in acknowledgement and waited for her to say more. She opened her mouth again but seemed at a loss for words. Finally, she coughed into her hand before walking behind her office. "I assume you're Mrs. Cole," Tom said when he realized the woman meant to stay silent.

"Yes," she said before sitting down and opening one of her drawers. She retrieved a large brown folder and began to look for a specific file.

Mrs. Cole resembled her orphanage. She was tall and clean, but also stark and austere. Wrinkles had already begun to mar her features, but none of them could be called laugh lines. Even the fabric of her modest dress seemed to match the cold grey of the orphanage's walls. Instinctively, Tom knew she wasn't used to feeling the apprehension that she was obviously displaying as she ruffled through some papers.

"I haven't said why I'm here," pointed out Tom.

Mrs. Cole glanced up at him and finally pulled out a file from her big folder. "You obviously came for the boy. I would have given your man his file alone if he'd told me your birth name."

"I've read the boy's file," said Tom. "What leads you to believe that the he's dangerous?"

Mrs. Cole's eyes widened further and her shoulders hunched defensively. Tom reconsidered his previous conclusion about Mr. Atherton's efficiency. The empire might be declining, but a man working for a peer of the realm could still barge into a vulnerable organization and make vague threats. He'd probably just bullied Mrs. Cole into surrendering practically all information about Wool's Orphanage. It would explain why she looked as though Tom was planning rob her children and reduce the grey edifice to rubble.

"We're required to note any signs of . . ." she trailed off with a nervous hand wave. "But Tom—the child's—academic performance is so promising and . . ."

"I saw his marks," said Tom. His tone must have been harsher than he intended because Mrs. Cole swallowed and looked away. "Ma'am, I'm not going to take any actions against this place, not even if the child is . . . defective."

". . . The other children are afraid of him," Mrs. Wool said eventually, not looking all that reassured by Tom's promise. "Even the older ones."

"Do you know why?"

"We have found no concrete evidence of wrong doing by your . . . him," admitted Mrs. Cole.

"But?" prompted Tom.

"But children are supposed to do wrong, and most of them aren't mature or intelligent enough to cover their tracks very well," said Mrs. Cole. She looked down momentarily and then met Tom's gaze once more. "We take the children who achieve exemplary academic performance on seaside holidays during the warmer days of summer. Tom usually accompanies us, and on the last trip he persuaded two other students to visit a cave with him. Both had argued with him previously and neither has been the same since the incident."

"Were they injured?" asked Tom. He had trouble imagining how an eight-year-old could overpower two other children, unless . . . "What do you mean they haven't been the same?"

"They're meeker than they ever were before," explained Mrs. Cole. "Dennis has been suffering from nightmares and Amy refuses to even enter any room Tom is occupying."

"This one incident is enough to make you suspicious of the boy?"

"Of course not," said Mrs. Cole, showing some of the spine she must undoubtedly posses to run an orphanage. She immediately raised a hand and coughed, probably in an attempt to excuse her previous terseness, but it was promising that she'd displayed evidence of strength at all. "As I said, he scares the other children. "Mad Tom' they call him when he's out of earshot. I also believe he might have started a few minor fires but . . ." She trailed off and looked away.

"He had no matches," finished Tom. Merope had never used matches to start a fire.

". . . Yes," said Mrs. Cole. She started to say something but then shook her head and rubbed at her forehead lightly. "A couple of years ago, Tom found a bleeding grass snake on the school grounds. He brought it inside, swearing that it was asking him for help. I ordered him to take it back outside and he started . . . _hissing_ at it. Children do the strangest things, of course, but . . ."

"It was disturbing," said Tom. It'd been disturbing when Merope tried to show him why she wasn't afraid of snakes.

Mrs. Cole nodded and looked away again. Tom imagined how silly she must be feeling. He felt like a fool sometimes and he'd spent a year enslaved by a woman who'd tried to convince him that her magic . . . even thinking the word made him want to cringe.

"Despite these problems, Tom remains one of our best students," said Mrs. Cole. She attempted to smile, but only managed a sour grimace.

"I'd like to see him now," said Tom, forcing himself to speak before he talked himself into writing a generous check and never looking back.


	2. The Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom Riddle Jr. is creepy and bitter. Tom Riddle Sr. is scared and bitter.

Much to Caroline’s resentment, her brother Michael had gotten on quite well with Tom despite having absolutely nothing in common with him. Tom had actually been the last person to speak to Michael before his unexpected death. They’d discussed—well, _he’d_ discussed, Tom hadn’t really said much—Michael’s last hunting trip to Sierra Leone.

“You should have seen them!” he’d said, blue eyes wide and light skin scandalously tanned. “Red River Hogs are majestic, fierce creatures.”

“No pig’s impressive enough that I’d risk becoming part of its meal just to catch a glimpse of it.” Tom had waved him away and returned his attention to the shipment reports he’d been working on.

“Don’t fret, Tom!” Michael had laughed good-naturedly and slapped his shoulder. “They were more afraid of me than I was of them.” Then he’d snatched the report away from Tom and pestered him into spending the night wasting time as he drank imported bourbon. It’d been the last conversation they’d had.

It was hard to say why the words kept repeating themselves in Tom’s mind, but he bet it had something to do with the way the boy was staring at him.

Mrs. Cole had brought him into the cluttered office much faster than Tom had been hoping for, giving him little time to prepare himself for the meeting. She’d made the appropriate introductions and then begged off, leaving the boy standing by the door with an air of hostility and confusion about him. At least he didn’t look like Merope.

_He’s more afraid of me than I am of him._

Tom almost shook his head in exasperation, but years of keeping his expression studiously blank helped him restrain himself. He sat down and thanked nature that the boy’s eyes were perfectly aligned. Merope’s had stared in opposite directions.

“Sit down,” Tom said finally, gesturing at the empty plain brown chair next to his.

The boy’s jaw tightened briefly, but he did step forward and got on the chair. He was short enough that his legs didn’t quite manage to touch the floor. For some reason, the sight of the worn and small black boots dangling a few centimeters above the floor was a comforting one. So was the sight of healing scab over the boy’s knobby right knee. Normal children scraped their knees playing all the time, didn’t they?

“What’s your name?”

It was startling to hear the question, perhaps because Tom had subconsciously expected to hear Merope’s wavering, despairing tone coming from the boy. Instead, he sounded aggravated and apprehensive, like he’d been called away from an important matter by something both tedious and dangerous. Had Mrs. Cole explained anything before ushering him into a meeting with a man he’d never met?

Tom looked up at the boy’s face and was taken aback by the familiar expression. He couldn’t restrain the small chuckle that bubbled in his throat. The boy’s slim eyebrows were lightly furrowed, his eyelids half-closed, and his chin tilted slightly upwards. Many people—business associates, nobles, _Caroline_ —looked at Tom just that way every day. It was the only way to figuratively look down on someone taller. Seeing the expression on small, young version of his own face was both disturbing and absurd. 

“Tom Riddle,” answered Tom when he realized he hadn’t responded to the boy’s question.

“You have my name.” If anything, the boy sounded even more resentful.

“I’m older, thus it’s more accurate to say that _you_ have _my_ name,” said Tom.

The boy narrowed his eyes and bit his lower lip. “It’s a common, boring name so you’re welcomed to it.”

“Are you planning to return my blood as well?” It was a cruel question. Tom regretted it before he even finished asking it and looked away when the boy cringed and glared down at his small hands.

“Why did you come here?” Merope’s son asked the question in a strained voice.

Why, indeed? Had he really tracked the boy down to throw petty insults at him? Tom looked down again and found him staring at his clenched, tiny fists. “I wanted to make sure you never went hungry,” he answered. After the blood comment, it sounded painfully insincere. From the way the boy’s fists shook, he thought so too.

“There’s plenty of food here,” he said, sliding out of his chair. Tom almost let him walk out of the office, but then he noted that his grey uniform didn’t quite fit him—the jacket was a little too big and the short trousers a little too small.

“You’ll be coming with me,” he said before the boy reached the door, remembering why he’d come. It hadn’t been to demand apologies or take revenge on someone who hadn’t even been born while Merope had . . . done what she'd done.

“I don’t want to go with you.” The boy didn’t turn around to face Tom, but he knew better than to try and walk out.

“You’re eight years old and an orphan,” said Tom. “What you want doesn’t matter.”

After taking an audible deep breath, the boy turned around and fixed Tom with what he undoubtedly considered a threatening scowl. The tired purple bags under his large brown eyes ruined the effect. “I’m going to make you regret this,” he said.

Tom raised his eyebrows and tilted his head mockingly even though his heart was trying to pound its way out of his chest.

“You have no idea what I can—”

“—I know _exactly_ what you can do,” interrupted Tom. He smirked when the boy’s eyes widened. _Nobody’s ever taken you seriously before, have they Merope’s son?_ “If I ever catch you doing it, I’ll smother you myself.”

“You’d go to jail?”

Tom doubted the boy meant for the statement to sound like a question.

“I’m the Earl of Ashbourne.” Immediately, he realized it was the first time he’d said it out loud. “Nobody will care if one of my bastards disappears as long as I make it clear that I don’t want them to care. Now go gather what little you own.”

The boy opened his mouth but only a strained half-gasp came out. His glare intensified so much that for a moment Tom expected to spontaneously combust. When the boy whirled around and practically ran out of the room, Tom nearly sagged with relief. He got out of his chair and walked towards the modest office’s solitary window, trying to chase away an irrational urge to run. The early morning sun was hidden behind solemn rain clouds that blanketed the stark Wool grounds in a gloomy monochrome. Rubbing at his eyes, Tom wondered what exactly he was doing.

So much for his moral high ground, at least. He’d been a bloody earl for less than a month and he was already throwing the title around to frighten a child. And with a mostly empty threat too. Even if he were the kind of man capable of murdering a little boy, Caroline would jump at the slightest pretext to drown him in some jail. John Riddle was only two years old; malleable and trusting of everyone around him, his mother most of all. With Tom out of the picture, Caroline would be able to do as she pleased with her precious earldom. It was wonder she hadn’t slipped some ricin into his afternoon tea yet.

It didn’t really matter. As Tom stared at the sparse playground just under Mrs. Cole’s office, he knew he couldn’t leave Merope’s son with people who’d willfully rationalize away all his oddities for fear of sounding mad. One way or another, he’d have to find a way to deal with the boy. Only he could.

Or so he hoped.

 

***

 

Tom sometimes indulged in a shameful fantasy. Not often, but often enough that it made him angry with himself. It was stupid and useless, so he’d been trying to whittle at the habit for as long as he could remember. Nevertheless Tom couldn’t help but dream, especially when he was forced to endure a particularly chafing humiliation. Whenever he had to kneel on stones, stew in the attic, or explain himself to Mrs. Cole, Tom imagined that his father was an important man earnestly searching for his lost heir.

The phantom would miraculously find Wool’s Orphanage, stride through the metal gates like an avenging knight, beg Tom to forgive him for taking so long, and then punish every last soul in the vicinity. Then he would bend down and smile before taking Tom’s hand and leading to a fancy carriage, promising to explain all about his powers the moment they arrived at his mansion. Tom didn’t remember ever not chiding himself for the stupidity of the scenario.

Mrs. Cole had only provided one piece of information about Tom’s background. _Your mother came to us impoverished and died shortly after you were born. She asked us to name you after your father and then your grandfather._ As usual, what she hadn’t said had been more revealing than what she _had_ said. Mrs. Cole was a gentle woman under all her stern bluster. If she’d had any flattering opinions about Mrs. Riddle, she would have shared them. The fact that she’d even failed to offer some empty compliments about Mrs. Riddle’s looks—not even generic comments about beautiful eyes or bright smiles—meant that Tom’s mother had been pitiful. What kind of important man fathered a child on a pitiful, ugly woman?

No. Tom’s father had been some simple and poor fellow who either died before Tom was born or abandoned his pregnant wife. It was stupid to entertain any other outlandish possibility. Tom wasn’t some lost heir or prince. He didn’t know where his strange powers came from, but he doubted they had anything to do with his parents.

Except not all of it had been stupid, apparently. Ashbourne wasn’t begging him for forgiveness or holding his hand and he doubted anyone at Wool’s would be getting punished on his behalf. But the Earl  _had_ come, he was important, he knew about Tom’s powers, and he was taking Tom somewhere. Judging by the way his gleaming black suit perfectly fit his long limbs and wide shoulders, he was also filthy rich. Even his shoes had looked spotless.

So why was Tom so _angry?_

His hands shook as he gathered his meager belongings and shoved them into the small, grey laundry bag all orphans at Wool’s were provided with. More than once, he’d had to wipe at his eyes viciously to chase away furious tears. He shoved his last pair of mismatched socks into the bag and threw it at the floor when he realized it wasn’t half full even though he’d placed his two notebooks at the bottom. With a growl, he kicked at it and then threw himself face down on his bed. A few seconds later he turned his head to the side and breathed in deeply. As he let the air out, he tried to remember why he’d wanted a father in the first place.

“You’re leaving.”

The words made Tom spring into a sitting position, heart pounding and fists clenching. He scowled when he saw Eric standing a few feet away from his bed, weak chin trembling and brown eyes moist. Making sure to keep his eyes on Eric, Tom got off the bed and bent down to pick up his bag. “You make sure to sleep and snore while you can,” he said as he walked out of the dormitory. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

Maybe that was why he was so upset? Tom didn’t doubt for a moment that Ahsbourne would dump him back at Mrs. Cole's doorstep at moment he became too frustrated. Unless Tom dedicated himself to making Ahsbourne happy, his position at the Earl’s household would precarious at best.

As he imagined the mocking smirks on his classmates' faces after he returned to Wool’s, Tom got to the ground floor, sat at the base of the stairs, placed his bag at his side, and looked down at his hands. He laced and twisted his fingers together, wondering if he could hope to keep Ashbourne satisfied just enough to spare himself the humiliation of being abandoned at Wool’s a second time. As for. . .

. . . He didn’t want to think about Ashbourne’s death threat.

Not that he could really help himself, though. If using his powers at Wool’s was dangerous, then using them wherever Ashbourne planned to take him was literally suicidal. Tom didn’t care if his new home would be Buckingham Palace; if he couldn’t practice his powers, he didn’t want to be there. _What you want doesn’t matter._

Footsteps coming from the hallway that led to Mrs. Cole’s office interrupted Tom’s bitter thoughts. He forced his hands to relax and looked up at Mrs. Cole and Ashbourne when they reached the base of the main staircase.

“Would you like a few moments to say your goodbyes?” asked Mrs. Cole before their silence could become truly awkward.

“I’ve said goodbye upstairs,” answered Tom, thinking that Mrs. Cole knew perfectly well he had no friends at Wool’s. He mentally thanked her for making the suggestion anyway. Hopefully, Ashbourne didn’t realize just how unpleasant his life was.

“Thank you for . . . everything,” said Ashbourne suddenly, stepping away from a nodding Mrs. Cole and moving towards Wool’s waiting room, gesturing at Tom.

“Take care of yourself,” said Mrs. Cole when Tom stood up and threw his bag over his shoulder.

“Yes,” said Tom with a last look in her direction. He thought he saw a small smile on her usually pursed thin lips. She _would_ smile at the thought of being rid of him.

Ashbourne didn't look at him—much less hold his hand—while they left Wool’s. Tom almost stumbled on the wet and slippery rocks that lined the way from the orphanage’s entrance to its gate as he tried to keep up with Ashbourne’s longer strides. He made sure to keep his expression placidly neutral, especially when he saw that a short balding man was waiting for Ashbourne in front of a black car. His poverty was obvious. There was no need to wear it on his face as well as his ill-fitting clothes.

“Where to, my lord?” asked the driver as he opened the car’s door. He sounded jovial enough, but he didn’t as much as glance at Tom.

“My house at Mayfair,” answered Ashbourne. He looked down and Tom and motioned at the car’s backseat.

With a brief glare, Tom climbed into the car and tried to ignore how supple and smooth the leather covering the seats was. He arranged his small laundry bag on his lap and wondered if Ashbourne planned to communicate with him via grunts and silent gestures forever. Apparently, yes.

The man remained silent through the whole trip, seemingly engrossed with everything that passed by his window. For his part, Tom was torn between looking at the different sights they passed by and trying to catch any expression on Ashbourne’s face. It wasn't until they drove past the bumpy road bisecting the dense forest surrounding Wool’s that Tom realized he was seeing the world outside the Orphanage for the first time.

He’d been to the beach, yes, but Mrs. Cole had always taken the exact same lonely route. Trees were trees, even the ones miles away from Wool’s. The beach itself had been fascinating the first time, especially the warm sand under his bare feet and the scent of salt permeating the air. But like most things in life, it’d failed to engage Tom’s attention for long. He wondered when he would cease to be interested in London’s cities.

The driver must have known better than to pass through the poorer neighborhoods in a fancy car. Judging by the fine suits the gentlemen on the street were wearing, none of them would try to rob Ahsbourne blind. It wasn’t only the people. The buildings seemed to defy logic and repel any dust that might dare to try and stick to their walls even though they were painted in soft lavenders, deep mossy greens, and bold blues. Most of the shops they passed by announced their wares in fancy script painted above gleaming glass windows.

A lady wearing a red dress with white polka dots was looking through one of the glass windows and holding a baby dressed in white. Who dressed an infant in white? The ones at Wool’s wore dark grey. _White is for rich people who can afford to discard stained clothes._ Mrs. Cole would sneer if she could see the lady in red and then say something about how impossible it was to wash dirt and vomit off white fabric.

While Tom glared at the oblivious rich lady and her baby, Ashbourne’s car gently slowed to a stop. The driver swiftly got out of his seat and opened Ashbourne’s door. Tom almost asked him if it wasn’t possible to open the passenger’s door from the inside before remembering that rich men probably made their servants carry out menial tasks for appearance’s sake. Will kept trying to make younger orphans do silly things like carry his notebooks and polish his quickly deteriorating fancy boots.

“Well, come on out,” said Ashbourne after Tom pointedly ignored his impatient gestures.

Would Ashbourne physically drag him out of the car if he refused? Tom almost held his ground, but finally decided that he’d have plenty of opportunities to test Ashbourne after he had a chance to collect his thoughts. He still made sure to get out of the car as slowly as humanly possible, moving as though the cars' leather seats had adhesive properties. Maybe to punish his minor act of petty rebellion, the lady in red walked towards Ashbourne while he dawdled out of the car’s comfortable backseat.

“Mr. Riddle!” she was saying when Tom’s feet hit the inexplicably clean pavement. Didn’t the handsome alders littering the neighborhood ever shed any leaves? “Oh—forgive me!” Did the woman just _giggle?_ Tom shot the driver a disbelieving look, but the stout man was standing beside his seat and looking straight ahead like a soldier on guard duty. “My lord,” corrected the lady in a grandiose tone. She bent her knees and lowered her head while her baby drooled on his immaculate white dress.

“It’s not a problem,” said Ashbourne with a shrug. Apparently he hadn't been Ashbourne for long enough that his neighbors were used to addressing him properly. It was probably an insignificant factoid, but Tom was happy to learn it anyway.

Suddenly, the woman turned her gaze downwards. Her brown eyes widened and Tom became acutely aware of his mismatched black socks, measly grey laundry bag, too small trousers, and oversized grey coat. He wondered if she’d ever seen anyone wearing boots with creases and fixed a blank expression on his face.

“Who . . .?”

“I’m one of his bastards,” answered Tom before Ashbourne could say anything. He had the satisfaction of watching the lady’s pale face turn almost as red as her dress before she gasped loudly and covered her mouth with the hand not holding her baby. Said baby gurgled and clamped a moist fist on the lone and artful curl of brown hair falling over its mother’s eye.

“If you’ll excuse us,” said Ashbourne while the woman tried to rescue her hair. He glanced down at Tom motioned towards the brown-bricked, two floor home a few feet in front of them.

“Yes, of course,” murmured the woman. She looked down and quickly averted her gaze when she met Tom’s eyes.

Feeling somewhat satisfied, Tom followed Ashbourne and waited as he pushed a key into a smooth steel lock. When they entered, Tom expected to be reprimanded—maybe even struck—for revealing who he was, but Ashbourne didn’t even look at him. Instead, he kept on walking without a word, obviously certain that Tom would follow.

Grudgingly, Tom _did_ follow, bitterly admiring the clear lemon-yellow coat of paint on the walls. The roof was white—no dust, Mrs. Cole would be amazed—and the floor was a made of very pale polished hardwood. Eventually, they made it to a living room larger than Wool’s biggest classroom. There was a deep brown hardwood table with a porcelain vase at its center holding flowers with the same shade of yellow as the walls. A set of large white sofas surrounded the handsome centerpiece.

“Gail!” bellowed Ashbourne suddenly, almost making Tom jump out of his skin. Mrs. Cole said yelling was impolite.

Thankfully, a large woman Tom assumed was Gail walked into the living room before Ahsbourne realized he’d startled Tom. “Well,” she said when she spotted Tom. “At least he’s clean.” She was liked Mrs. Cole inversed. Instead of a simple grey dress, she wore a simple _black_ dress. Instead of thin dark brown hair, she had a shock of blond curls. Instead of a thin body and long face, she was stout and round faced. Tom wondered if she wouldn't prefer to keep a house with darker colors.

“I’ll send a tailor to take his measurements sometime this week,” said Ashbourne, still not looking at Tom. “And a tutor and . . . just see that he’s fed.”

“Humph!” The wo—Gail shot Ashbourne an impatient frown before looking down at Tom. “He looks like you. Hopefully he’s as meek as you are.”

“I’m not—” Ashbourne cut himself off and grunted. He looked down at Tom with a serious expression and crouched until they could see each other eye to eye. “She’s right. I’m not difficult to please. As long as you obey your tutors and refrain from . . . playing with fire, we won’t have a problem.” Before Tom could formulate a response, he rose to his feet, nodded to Gail, and strode out of the room.

 _I don’t_ play _with fire_ , thought Tom, wishing he were brave enough to say it out loud.

“His wife’s going to hate you,” said Gail, drawing Tom’s attention to her.

“I’d like to know where I can sleep.” Not that he was sleepy. His head was bursting with nervous questions, but he was certain Gail would report all he said to Ashbourne. He needed to be patient. Always patient.

“What’s the magic word?” asked the woman with a slight shake of her head.

Tom’s felt his eyes widen before he realized what she meant. “Please.”

Gail smiled and nodded before steering him towards a short hallway leading to a set of spotless white stairs. Privately, Tom berated himself for assuming that a mere servant would know about the things he could so, much less that she’d label them magic. His powers weren’t magic, anyway. Magic was one of the many lies unhappy children consoled themselves with. His powers were _real_. For the first time in his life, he was truly certain of it.

 

***

 

Overnight, a bold red blemish had bloomed where her left nostril connected with the skin of her face. Caroline twitched her nose and almost winced when the skin surrounding the pimple stretched and burned. She tried to console herself by noting how small it was despite the pain it was generating. There wasn’t even any pus on its tip. If her skin wasn’t so pale, it probably wouldn’t be noticeable.

_And what if it is?_

John interrupted her angry thoughts with an unhappy sob. Caroline sighed heavily and walked towards the corner where her son was playing, oblivious to the problems his mother was muddling through subconsciously. Judging by the way he was cradling his left index finger, he’d been hammering his brightly-colored wooden blocks against each other again. He raised his arms when Caroline approached him and quieted when she bent to pick him up.

“I’ve told you to be careful,” she reprimanded.

John looked up at her with his big blue eyes and nodded. Caroline smiled down at him and thought that she’d ever stop being grateful that his eyes weren’t a bottomless brown even though he mostly resembled his father. At least she didn’t have to look upon Tom Riddle’s eyes every day of her life. She reached for his left hand to ascertain that he hadn’t seriously injured himself. Caroline sighed tiredly and kissed the tip of John’s finger. The skin under his nail looked a bit red but she doubted it would bruise.

She was startled by a gentle knock on her bedroom door before she could deposit John on the floor once more. “Come in!” she called, feeling exasperated with herself. There was no reason to be nervous. He husband was quite easy to manage, painful pimple or no.

“Pardon me, my lady,” said Rosa—or was it Clare? One of the servants. The short girl was finishing a hurried curtsy when Caroline turned to face her. “His lordship’s asking for his son.” She straightened and waited, obviously expecting Caroline to relinquish John. She usually did whenever Tom asked to see him.

“I’ll deliver him myself,” said Caroline with a thin smile. The servant nodded hurriedly and curtsied before hurrying out of the room. Despite her complete lack of reaction, Caroline was certain that she’d be gossiping with her fellow maids by dinnertime. She hugged John tightly enough that he gurgled unhappily.

 _It could be so much worse, Caroline._ She heard the words in her mother’s harsh, thin voice.

With a determined sigh that made her pimple smart, Caroline smoothed John’s frock and headed towards Tom’s study. It _had_ been worse for her once. Tom was at least—as much as it pained her to admit it sometimes—gorgeous. Most importantly, he paid Rebecca and Annabel no mind.

And there was no need to fuss over her looks much. Tom had always seemed unfazed by them, even before their relationship had taken all its sour turns. During the few weeks of the shallow farce of a “courtship” their fathers had orchestrated, Caroline had been deeply comforted by his apparent indifference. The trip to his office was nerve-wracking anyway. As she knocked on Tom’s mahogany door, she cursed Michael for daring to die so unexpectedly.

“Come in!” Caroline took a second to arrange her features into an impassive mask and walked in. Tom’s eyes predictably narrowed when he saw her. He opened his mouth, probably to ask her to leave, but snapped it shut when he spotted John. Plastering a smile on his face, he got up from his chair and walked around his desk to pick the child off her arms. John giggled the moment Tom reached for him, eager to get his hands on the clear reading spectacles Tom was wearing. Tom smiled again, took them off, and placed them on his desk. John immediately became engrossed with one of the silver buttons on Tom’s navy blue waistcoat.

“What—is there anything I can do for you?” asked Tom, tone carefully pleasant. He always made his tone artificially friendly when John was around regardless of what he was actually saying.

“That’ll not work for much longer,” responded Caroline also in deceptively light tone, wishing her pimple didn’t punish every word she spoke with pain. “Soon, he’ll understand the nuances of your words as well as the sound of your voice.”

“It works for now,” said Tom, smiling down at John, who was staring at the silver buttons as though they were the most complex puzzle in the world. “If you’re here, you must want something from me. Is it money?”

Caroline swallowed to keep herself from gasping angrily. He’d said almost the exact same words the one and only night she’d gone to his room, kissed him, and . . . but only _after_ having sex with her, of course. Instead of letting herself be distracted by the insult, she walked towards his mahogany desk and reached for the cards noting all the people who’d left messages for him over the week. For once, she was certain there was a message from someone not involved with his many businesses.

“Do you realize,” she started as she leafed through the cards, “that not a single noble has asked to meet with you since Michael died?”

“And?”

Trust Tom to respond to her in monosyllables as often as possible. “They’re insulting you,” said Caroline, looking up at him when she found the card she was looking for, “essentially letting you know that they do not accept you as the Earl of Ashbourne.”

“Somehow, I’ll get through my days without their approval.” He said the words as he raised John over his head, making John giggle and kick at the air happily.

“They’re also insulting your son.”

“I don’t care what they think of John anymore than I care what they think of me,” said Tom, shrugging and bringing John back down to his chest. “Quite frankly, I hope those vultures ignore John for the rest of his days.”

“Are you certain John will share your . . . progressive views when he’s older?” she asked, then waited for him to turn his dark brown eyes on her. “Don’t you think he should have the opportunity to reject his peers before they reject him?”

“They’re not—” before he could get the weak protest out, Caroline offered him the card she’d been looking for. “—Winston Churchill?”

“Indeed,” said Caroline as Tom reached for the card and read Sir Churchill's curt missive.

“So,” started Tom as he set John on the floor, “you think I should worm my way into the upper class by . . . what? Beginning what passes for friendship among you people with the only man in Britain who might be more despised than I am?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” said Caroline, ignoring the way John was pulling on the hem of her skirt. “The nobility doesn’t despise you. I wouldn’t be worried if they did. The nobility _disdains_ you, which is quite different. They _despise_ Winston Churchill and if you start any kind of relationship with him, they will think twice before dismissing you.”

“Do you remember that I actually prefer the nobility to dismiss and underestimate me?” His broad shoulders had hunched slightly and his lips were pursed into a tense bow. John walked over to him and pulled on his trousers but Tom was lost in his own thoughts.

Caroline allowed herself a small smile. He hated arguing about anything not concerning complex numbers and diagrams. She had him. “Michael is dead, Tom,” she said.

“I haven’t forgotten—”

“You could only afford to cultivate an air of indifference because he was marketing the company to Britain’s rich and powerful. Unless you want to go back to catering exclusively to the dwindling middle class, you’ll have to earn your place among the nobles you resent so much.”

With a defeated sigh, Tom patted John’s head and walked around to sit at his desk. He pulled out a calendar and scanned it, eyebrows furrowed. “I have an opening June 20th—”

“—too soon,” dismissed Caroline.

“. . . July 23rd?”

“Too late,” said Caroline, shaking her head and walking around to look at the calendar herself. “The 6th of July will do, even though it’s a—”

“—I can’t on Saturdays,” interrupted Tom, shaking his head firmly.

“Why . . .” Caroline trailed off and held back a sigh. The infamous bastard. The other subject she needed to discuss with Tom. “The 7th, then. You must be careful with your response. Be polite, but not deferential. Note that you’re busy, but don’t imply that you have no time for leisure. Acknowledge that you were surprised by his note, but don’t make it sound like you’re concerned with your social status—”

“—I’m _not_ concerned with my social status,” interjected Tom.

Caroline ignored him and glanced over at the corner where John had wondered off to after accepting that his parents weren’t in the mood to play. As far as she could tell, John was entirely focused on the Ashbourne crest etched into the wood of the armchair next to the tall bookcase on the rightmost wall of Tom’s office. For him, Caroline would have to groom Tom Riddle into something resembling a proper earl.

“If your response is too short, it will sound dismissive,” she continued. “Too long, and it’ll sound pleading . . .”

“Why don’t _you_ write the response?” suggested Tom with obvious exasperation.

“An excellent idea,” agreed Caroline, walking away from him and heading towards John. Before she reached him, Caroline turned towards Tom and stared at him until he looked up at her from his desk. “You should bring the boy here.”

“Why?” he asked without bothering to pretend he didn’t know who she was referring to. “Do you want to reenact Cinderella? I’m not certain your daughters would enjoy it much.”

“Send him to a boarding school if you’re so scared I might make him cry,” said Caroline. “I don’t particularly care what you do with your bastards as long as you don’t parade them to your neighbors at Mayfair.”

“No.”

“Please.” Caroline practically had to force herself to push the word out of her throat. “Consider how this situation looks to an outsider. You inherit and earldom, and suddenly you’re interested in the upbringing of an unknown bastard. Everyone will assume that you don’t believe John’s . . .” she’d almost said _your son_ “. . . adequate. If your boy is at least here, most people will dismiss the notion that you’re grooming an alternate heir.”

“. . . Fine,” said Tom after staring at John for a few moments. Then he shot Caroline a dangerously blank look. “I expect you to treat him as I’ve treated Rebecca and Annabel.”

With a hasty nod, Caroline turned away from him and collected John from the floor. Better to end their meeting before he changed his mind. _I hope the bastard is as easy to manage as his father,_ she thought on her way to the girl’s bedchambers.

**Author's Note:**

> I already posted the beginning of this story over at FF.net. I'm the same Loudest_Voice (so obviously this isn't plagiarism).


End file.
